


Come on Over, Baby

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Art, Ficlet, Furniture, M/M, Pencil, Watercolors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 11:35:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2108370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek thinks maybe he should get new furniture. He's surprised by the reaction it gets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come on Over, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> The ficlet is because my art isn't good enough to stand on its own. :) I wanted to play with art, and my watercolor pencils, and it took me forever because I only worked on it at the campground. But it's done, and here it is, because I can't get any BETTER if I don't PRACTICE, right? As always, I do not own the world nor characters of Teen Wolf, I just like to play with them.

Derek manages to go through the pack’s high school years living as if he doesn’t expect to make it another month, let alone a couple of years. His living space in the loft is sparely decorated (if at all). He leaves the hole in the wall, because why bother fixing it?

Then it hits him that these teenagers are _graduating_. That they made it to adulthood and are moving on into the world and out of Beacon Hills and that he might have had a part in it. That perhaps that makes him an adult as well.

He’s been over the age of 18 for eight years, and this is the first time that it truly strikes him that he _is_ an adult.

He has something almost like a job, consulting with the Sheriff for the past year and a half. He has something like a family in Scott’s pack. He has a home, such as it is.

Maybe it’s time to buy some furniture.

He starts with the bedroom upstairs, where no one else sees the heavy walnut-framed bed that he buys, with the matching wardrobe and bureau. He touches it at night, feels the sheen of the wood and smells the new, fresh polish. It grounds him, settles him into this _idea_ of being the sort of person who has roots and furniture and a home that is actually like a _home_.

On his next trip he brings home a living room set.

It’s the polar opposite of the ancient thing that used to be his couch. That one had come from Craig’s List, described as _several years old but still functional_ when he picked it up, and by the time he hauls it out he’s not sure _functional_ is still a valid word for it.

The new set is light. Bright. A long couch and two matching chairs, all in a soft burgundy to red shade of fabric. The chairs have high backs and narrow arms. The couch is armless, perfect for lying along while watching television (that piece he’s had for two years now, thanks to the teenagers in his life). They all stand on wooden legs, the grain thick and dark. The coffee table is made of the same wood, the pattern in the grain thick enough to stare at when he’s not reading, the table itself heavy enough for his boots when he leans back.

It looks strange in his living room, and at the same time, it looks like home.

The first time the pack comes in after the furniture arrives, they all stop dead. Stiles throws an arm out as if to keep them back, as if the furniture might be a fresh new threat against them.

“Dude,” Scott says quietly. “You have furniture.”

Jackson raises one eyebrow, still speaking in the faux accent he brought back from London. “Of course he does. He’s not some homeless hack; he’s an adult.”

“It’s nice,” Lydia tells him, and there’s honesty in her words. It’s not a compliment, not really, but she’s also not railing against his sense of style. Nice is well… _nice_.

Stiles flops backwards onto the couch, limbs spread as he takes up as much room as possible. “Now you need more. You didn’t think about how many of us there are.”

“It’s _my_ furniture,” Derek says dryly. “I bought it for myself, not for pack meetings.”

“It’s better than the old couch,” Isaac points out, falling to the floor to fit himself between Stiles’s legs and Scott’s legs, leaning back against the couch. “It’s better than he used to have.”

The pack lets it go then, settling in for a movie first, then a few hours of arguing over the game system. They change seats several times during the evening, sprawling comfortably, sharing space, and Derek keeps himself just a little apart from them, letting himself watch.

He catches Scott watching him return, sees the nod that reminds him that he is a part of Scott’s pack, not just an omega. But he can’t join them, not with the age difference that stretches between them. Scott nods once more, like he understands, and Derek goes to get more snacks and something to drink.

The pack drifts out again over time, until one time when Derek comes back from the kitchenette, only Stiles is left, still sprawled across the couch. He has one arm up on the back, as if waiting for someone else to sit next to him, and his legs are spread. He smirks as he looks at Derek.

“Our baby sourwolf, all grown up,” Stiles says quietly. “Look at you, with new furniture that came from the store instead of the dump, and probably doesn’t smell like other people have been fucking on it already.”

Derek pauses mid-step, his expression twisting into a sneer. “No one’s going to fuck on the couch.” He lives alone now, and he’s given up on relationships. It’s not worth getting into a situation where someone wants to kill him or his pack. Again.

Stiles raises both eyebrows. “Pity. Considering you’re probably all pent up and frustrated.”

“Does this have a point?”

Stiles pats the back of the sofa, expression open and inviting before he bites his lower lip and nods. He keeps his voice low, slightly husky, and it sends an odd shiver through Derek when he hears it. “Come on over, baby,” Stiles tells him, and Derek takes a step before he consciously realizes that he’s doing it.

This isn’t something he’s considered before. Men. Stiles in particular. But he can smell arousal and interest and honesty, and Stiles’s world domination attempts already happened years ago and he’s better now. Derek is fairly certain that sex with him isn’t going to turn Stiles into a killer again. He takes another hesitant step, rocking forward when Stiles hooks a finger through his belt loop and tugs.

“When you get new furniture, you have to christen it,” Stiles tells him, deftly working the button of Derek’s jeans open and zipper down. “So consider this a house-warming gift. Or… whatever else you might want to think of it as. And just FYI—this couch is the perfect height.” Stiles leans in, nuzzling against the bulge that is rapidly growing, and Derek can’t really think too clearly now.

He drops a hand to Stiles’s head, cards his fingers through his hair and tugs lightly. When Stiles looks up at him, amber eyes wide and lashes long, Derek’s heart catches and he feels his pulse roar south. “I have a new bed, too,” Derek manages to say.

Stiles grins. “Well then, we’ll have to take care of christening that next,” he says, and then he can’t say anything else because his mouth is already full.

Derek’s surprisingly okay with that. More than okay. Really truly _incredibly_ okay. He grunts a response, and gives himself over to whatever Stiles wants.

Maybe this new furniture thing was a good idea. He wonders what would happen if he decided to redo the kitchen next.


End file.
